


The Shadow of Things That Have Been

by asktheravens



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Ghosts, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Post-Canon, Snow, Yule, well just one ghost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 12:54:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13054416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asktheravens/pseuds/asktheravens
Summary: Prince Auguste was dead, to begin with....On a snowy Yule night, Laurent can only wait while an injured Damen struggles to keep a promise, and spectres from the past haunt the longest night in a more than metaphorical way.





	The Shadow of Things That Have Been

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MemeKonYA](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemeKonYA/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy! This is my first Yuletide fic. I'm sorry this is so incredibly self indulgent, but this is a type of story I love! Happy Yule!
> 
> Many thanks to Ylixia for beta reading.
> 
> My apologies to Charles Dickens.

"He'll be here," Jord said. 

"I know he will," Laurent said.  "He promised he would and I haven't heard otherwise.  Preparations will continue."  They didn't talk about the fact that Damen was already a day late, with no word.  They did not speak of the snow that had already begun to fall, or the heavy clouds that showed more was brewing.  It was the shortest day of the year, and the sun would set in only a few hours.  Already the candles had been lit and the feast laid out.  The hall smelled of evergreen, woodsmoke, and spices.  He'd demanded everything be perfect for the Long Night celebrations, like it had been when he was a boy.  When his brother had lived, and his father.  He'd wanted Damen to experience an old Veretian custom as it should be, wanted it enough to probe the old scars.  It had been years since he'd taken more than a cursory part in the festivities.  They'd hardly had any time together since the idyllic weeks at the summer palace in Ios, and what little they'd had they'd had to share with more public events and private councils than patience could endure with only a few short, stolen nights together.

He'd made a promise as well, that soon enough things would calm down and they could rule together from the center, united, with their strengths in balance, but first they had to tend to their fractured kingdoms.  The Veretian lords tested him constantly, but they used words;  subtle insults and wheedling missives to test his limits, spies to test his discretion, and constant internecine bickering to test his diplomacy- and his patience.  He longed to get away for a few days, though of course he couldn't pull all his irons from the fire.  Damen's tardiness had already cost them a day.

Of course, Damen had his own problems.  He'd avoided civil war when he took the throne from Kastor, and with Laurent's help he'd navigated the treacherous waters of Akielon politics, currents almost totally unknown to him after so long away and so many changes.  Then Damen had outlawed slavery, and the frayed fabric of Akielos had come apart at the seams.  Damen was away yet again, dealing with another pocket of armed rebellion.  He could handle it, of course; his missives were full of victories and Damen being overgenerous with mercy, the rebels being driven into smaller and smaller knots of resistance.  Laurent kept busy enough that he rarely thought about how the campaign had stretched through the autumn to the very threshold of winter.  He thought even less about stray arrows and cold nights and camp fever.  He told no one of the nightmare he'd been having where Auguste came to him with his silvered armor crusted with dried black gore and his eyes white and squirming with maggots.  His brother spoke with a voice cold as a tomb and said "One stray arrow and you sit two thrones" and then Laurent saw a body laid out behind him.  The crimson shroud did nothing to hide the dark blood that had soaked through and it had slipped down to reveal a familiar shock of dark curls.  Laurent woke with a gasp each time, chill sweat on his hands, and he walked the halls of the palace for a time, glad of the long, concealing darkness of the nights but aching for a certain familiar warmth in his cold bed.

He stared out over the hall, the glow of hearth and candles, and reminded himself that it was only a dream, born of strain and separation.  Damen had promised, and he was coming.  He would be here.

***

"Saddle my horse," Damen ordered.  "I'm going to ride on ahead."

"Yes, Exalted," said his squire, while his field medic drew a breath.

"You don't have to say it," Damen grumbled.

"Permission to say it anyway, Exalted."

"Granted," he sighed.  He might as well let the man do his job.

"I must strongly object to you riding, Exalted.  The wound is still fresh and liable to come open.  You should remain in the wagon and rest."

"The wagon is stuck and I'm already late.  It's only a flesh wound."

"The stitches could pull out, Exalted.  You still lost enough blood to be of concern, and it could become corrupted if not tended."

"I'll risk it," he said.  He levered himself up and did his best to act as though the wound didn't pull and the room didn't spin.  It didn't matter.  He had made a promise to Laurent, and he would keep it.  He tucked the invitation into his heaviest tunic, slightly dogeared, where he could feel it against his skin.  It reminded him that Laurent wanted him, wanted to see him, his lover's words restrained as always but weighted with a feeling that resonated in Damen's own heart.  This night meant more to Laurent than he would put into words, but he trusted Damen to understand.

He let his squires help him dress.  There was no point in hiding from them when they already knew, and they were extremely cautious of the bandages wound around his injured side.  The stray arrow had found a gap in his armor and pierced him only inches from the fresh scar his brother had left him.

He took Laurent's gift from its box and tried not to laugh at the momentary bafflement on the faces of his young squires.  The pants had arrived with Laurent's invitation, accompanied by a card that expressed Laurent's desire to see him in them with such understated mirth that Damen could almost taste his smirking smile.  They were the bright scarlet of Damen's royal house, thick wool on the outside and buttery silk quilted into the lining.  No one in Akielos would ever wear such a thing, but then no one in Akielos faced the possibility of freezing himself to the point of castration riding in the winter.  The king and his two squires shared an awkward moment before silently coming to the conclusion that there was no dignified way for them to help Damen put them on and none of them were going to say anything about it.  

The thing about pants, he realized, was that they touched everything.  He hated the strange feeling of fabric on his skin, binding him and rustling between his thighs as he walked, but the blessed warmth of them just about made up for it.  Veretian style riding boots and heavy socks completed the protective layer, and Damen was glad he'd gotten practice putting boots on the last time he'd been wounded, because it was wretchedly hard to do without bending and not at all like sandals that someone could lace onto him.

He stepped out of his hasty tent into the frigid air.  The wind had a damp, sharp smell he'd never sensed before and the weak winter sunlight could barely make a grey glow under the low white sky.  Flakes of white drifted down in a lazy dance and settled on the dark mane of his waiting horse and the stoic groom who would never dare complain that he'd had to wait outside for the king to dress.  He could see the road through the barren trees and the curses and grunts of the soldiers trying to free the wagon still drifted up to the makeshift royal camp.  Deep, muddy ruts churned the road into deep trenches and peaks, and even the paved horse path for the royal couriers had a treacherous film of slush and ice on the surface.  He would make better time if he cut through the woods to the castle, even in the dark, than he would trusting to the road.

The groom had brought him a mounting block, which annoyed him even though it was foolish to complain.  He thought to mount without it, but the stitches screamed and burned and he thought better of it.  He got to his seat and settled in to the saddle, a deep, padded contraption meant for long distances and poor riders.  It even had a series of straps that could secure him, if he chose.  He certainly hadn't ordered it, but he sensed the hand of his physician and sat with regal dignity as though it was his custom to mount and ride this way.  It would only delay him to order the horse re-saddled, he told himself.

"Your guard is not yet prepared, Exalted," the groom said.  "There was some delay sorting out all the mounts, and they will be prepared in perhaps a quarter hour."

"I'll ride ahead, then," Damen said, though he scarcely heard the man.  He thought of Laurent, and the sinking sun, and would let nothing delay him further.  "I'm already late.  They can catch up."

"As you wish, Exalted," the man said, his eyes wide.  Fortunately, or unfortunately perhaps, Nikandros was a day behind yet, and no one here would argue with him if he chose to ride off alone.  The weather was getting worse and they were within ten miles of a Veretian fort, one hosting the  King of Vere himself, and one of Laurent's most loyal territories.  He would be safe enough.

***

No one said anything when Laurent gave the order to start the feast.  King Damianos had still not arrived, and it was common knowledge throughout the small contingent of the court present.  Laurent ordered the watchers to remain on the wall, to announce him as soon as his cohort was spotted on the road, but he allowed them some warm cider and plates of food to be taken in shifts.  No one pointed out the dark, the cold, or the worsening storm.  They would be lucky to notice Damen's arrival before he passed into the circle of torchlight right outside the outer wall.

Laurent led each course of the feast, always with an empty chair next to him.  He chose first from each platter and put a specially selected morsel from each onto the plate of his absent guest.  He kept up a conversation with Damen in his head and kept a smile on his face throughout, as one plate filled with uneaten food and a clean one appeared beside it.  He ate as well, though he scarcely tasted the beautiful food he was served.  He had thought he could do this, that he would notice the absence of his family little enough with Damen's big, warm presence to balance it out, but instead he felt more brittle than ever.  He'd left the spot to his left for Damen, the place of greatest honor, but he'd left the spot on his right for the memory of Auguste.  He had loved his parents, but his mother had died when he was young and his father was often a distantly affectionate figure; he'd known both of them primarily through the stories his brother had told him, his shining older brother who had always made as much time for him as possible, and it was Auguste he missed most keenly.  He could keep the pain at bay now, most of the time, but Yuletide was the hardest; Auguste had loved it.  He wanted his brother to meet Damen, wanted him to give his blessing and be half-seriously protective, wanted it like a little child who still believed that the Yulbuck came to bring gifts.  Laurent remembered believing in it, that this was a night when miracles could happen, but no miracle was bringing him back.  The longer Damen remained missing, the more he found that little boy still within him, pleading that all he wanted was to have him here, or at least to know he was safe.

The feast wore on, a parade of marvels, music, and dancing that Laurent had to pretend to enjoy.  He knocked back another cup of hot mulled wine, but the heat and spice and the burn of the alcohol couldn't reach the icy spot of fear and grief within his chest.

***

They'd given him an invalid's horse as well, he noticed, a big, sure-footed gelding who had two paces, an amble and a smooth-gaited slightly faster amble which still ate up ground at a respectable rate.  Some imaginative soul had named him Sock, and Sock did not care one whicker that he bore a king on his back.  The thick falling snow also failed to impress him, and Damen was grateful.  He could barely see the trees in front of them and he'd lost track of the time, riding on through an endless twilit veil of frigid white.  He thought they were still close to the road, that it was off to their left, and that the castle was ahead of them, but he would have liked to be surer.  His breath steamed from his dripping nose and his lips and cheeks had gone numb.

Even the unflappable Sock seemed perturbed, but he went on.  Damen swayed in the saddle, dizzy and blind.  He tried to fasten the straps, dignity be damned, but his numb fingers couldn't work the buckles.  The cold no longer burned, since he couldn't feel his hands or feet, but the wound in his side had expanded to a throbbing ache that filled his whole body, ebbing and flowing in time with his pulse.  Sock stumbled on the uneven ground and wrenched him sideways.  The pain peaked to a crescendo and his vision went dark around the edges, but he held on to the reins and the saddle with grim determination, conscious of the invitation tucked against his chest and of Laurent, waiting for him somewhere in the dark.

Sock stopped short at the edge of a creek bed, the stream itself frozen and buried in the snow.  The world was nothing but white cut through with dark verticals where he could make out the bare trees, and the stream ran across in a black line; if it hadn't been for the horse, they would have tumbled into it.  There was no way to tell how wide or deep it was under the snow; even the slope of the bed was barely discernible in the dark.  He could turn back, or he could try to cross.  He no longer believed he could find the road and cursed himself idly for not thinking about things like bridges before he set off.  Laurent had described snow as a positive feature of Long Night in Vere, but that seemed impossible to believe.

He looked back the way he had come.  Snow settled in silence on the tracks of his horse, mocking him for thinking he could backtrack to the road.  The storm continued as he watched and for the first time since he'd woken in the surgeon's tent he worried about something more than being late.  He'd seen men taken gravely ill or even killed by the heat of an Akielon summer if it took them unprepared or just unlucky. Laurent had described building forts and throwing snowballs, riding in a sleigh, and zipping down the slopes near the castle, finishing the day with warm cider and a crackling fire, and though he rarely mentioned it Damen could tell it was Auguste he remembered doing those things with.  He wanted to share them with Damen, but the storm continued on, implacable and totally unconcerned with one foolish king and his long suffering horse.

"On we go then," he said, though it came out a croak.  He coaxed Sock forward and the horse looked back at him, blowing steam, as though he were crazy.  Damen dug his heels in more forcefully, or at least he thought he did, since he'd long since lost communication with his feet.  Sock snorted and Damen thought he would balk, but at last he edged forward and began trying to pick his way down the creek bed.

The horse took one step down, then another, and for a moment balanced between the level ground and the frozen stream.  His hindquarters tried to join the rest of him and he overbalanced, sliding on the mud and slate of the slope, and went over with a scream.  Damen's numb fingers lost their grip entirely and he was thrown clear of his thrashing horse.  He smacked against the rocky bank and plunged through the ice and snow into the heart-stopping cold of the water running beneath.  The fall left him with no air in his lungs to scream as agony raced up his injured side and for a moment he thought the fall had killed him.  He heard frantic hoof beats as Sock righted himself and charged off into the night, and then he knew no more for a time.

***

When Laurent could bear it no longer, he excused himself from the dancing.  He gathered a tray from a serving woman who had known him since he was a child and loaded it with mincemeat tarts and steaming mulled wine.  The men on the walls were glad to accept it.  It was awkward now, to see them struggle between familiarity and his new rank, but they offered him a welcome around their fire.

He declined with a smile and stepped out of the circle of warmth and light.  It was late enough now that many of the courtiers were already quite drunk, sleeping through the long dark of the night or engaged in another pastime to keep away the cold.  Laurent needed to travel only a few steps to completely leave behind the comfort of the fire.  He looked out over the falling snow and thought, he'll be here.

***

Damen came back to himself with a groan.  He couldn't feel much of anything, but he thought the blazing pain in his side had roused him in time to keep from freezing to death.  He was looking up into the white sky and he wasn't cold anymore, but his mind had come back enough to know that was bad.  Very bad.

He struggled to rise, dragging himself up the creek bed with hands that felt as responsive as blocks of ice and feet that were even worse.  He was soaked, and his clothes were already freezing stiff.  His side felt torn open and something warmer and thicker than water was running down the inside of his tunic.  He was well and truly late for the party, as well.

It was so hard to see, or know what was going on.  He thought he'd climbed up the right side of the stream, but he couldn't be sure.  There was no sign of his horse.  He thought if he went back into the creek he would never make it out again, which left him three directions to choose from: upstream, downstream, or straight away from the creek.  Straight seemed to slope up, and he remembered that the fort was supposed to be at the top of a mountain.  Hunched over his wounded side, dizzy and numb, Damen staggered off into the trees.  He could only think that there was shelter somewhere ahead, that he would find Laurent and everything would be all right.

He lost track of how many times he fell, lurching from tree to tree as his remaining strength bled out of him, but still he found nothing but endless, hushed white woods.  Maybe I died back there, he thought, and this is the other side of the veil.  But if he were dead, he thought his side wouldn't hurt anymore, so he pressed on.  He stopped wondering if he was going in circles, if anyone was looking for him, or anything else, as he needed all his focus to continue shuffling one step at a time through the knee-deep snow.

A rabbit hole did him in, at last.  His foot on his good side, in as much as he had a good side anymore, sank up to the ankle beneath the blanket of white and he fell forward.  His arm flailed at a tree trunk but he failed to grasp it, scraping his palm on the wood on his way down.  He lay sprawled in the snow and no amount of struggle could get him moving again.  His mind called out, but his limbs would not heed him.  Warmth stole through him and he slipped into a trance in the cold night.

***

Laurent sat at his desk composing letters by candlelight.  The party had died down to a soft murmur of voices and quiet music, but he had ordered the steward to keep the lights and fires burning against tradition in his private quarters.

"Your Majesty?" his steward asked.

"I gave orders that I was not to be disturbed," Laurent said.  He did not look up from his letter.

"A messenger just arrived.  From Akielos, your Majesty."  Laurent's heart surged, but he continued on at an unhurried pace, setting his seal into the wax and letting it cool without smearing.

"Show him in," Laurent said.  While he waited, he drew a coat over his shoulders.  He would prefer not to receive the man in his nightclothes, no matter how much they covered.

The messenger looked miserable and had obviously ridden hard in the bad weather.  His face was chapped and red and he moved stiffly, his clothes wet and plastered with mud.

"What word from our brother in Akielos?" Laurent said, and the messenger flinched at the chill in his voice.

"Our beloved King Damianos has fallen in battle," he rasped.  He held out a folded message, much battered but still sealed, and Laurent took it even though he could no longer feel anything in his fingers.

"What happened?" he managed, though he thought he already knew.

"A stray arrow, after the battle's end.  It pierced his side.  When I left he was in the surgeon's tent."

"He still lives?" Laurent asked, and there was that faint hint of his younger self again, that desperate child wanting to be told everything would be all right.

"He did when I left," the man said.  "May all the gods see to it that he still does now."

"Indeed," Laurent said.  He set the dispatch on his desk and sat down, pulling another clean piece of parchment onto the blotter.  "Thank you for your haste.  Go get warm."  The man bowed and left, but the steward lingered.

"Your Majesty..."

"There is nothing further that I require.  You may leave.  If any of our foreign guests arrive, make sure they are properly welcomed."

"Your Majesty," he tried again, softer this time.

"I said leave," Laurent said, and the man fled.

Once he was alone in the room, the shaking began in earnest, a bone deep, soul deep chill that rattled him to his core.  He wrapped a soft old blanket around him, one that had been on Auguste's bed, but it did little to warm him.

 

***

 

"Look at what the cat dragged in," a voice was saying.  Damen's eyes fluttered open, and he might have simply closed them again, but that voice was so damned familiar.

"Laurent," he whispered.

"Not quite," it said.  Whoever it was, they sounded like Laurent in their most private moments, the same drawling vowels, the same warmth, just a hint of laughter in it, but deeper, more relaxed.  A face appeared over his own, a man leaning down to look at him, and hands kept trying to roll him over.

"You are a mess," the man tutted, and he had the hair.  That beautiful, long golden hair that he'd never seen on another man besides Laurent, not since....

"It will come to you," he said, patting Damen lightly.  "Give it a moment."

...Marlas.  Shit.

"Auguste." 

"That's right, Damianos.  I might be pleased to see you, under other circumstances."

"I'm dead, then.  I died and your the one who came for me."

"You aren't dead.  Not yet.  But you're working on it.  That's why I'm here."

"You want to watch?"

"Not at all," the dead prince said, and he sounded offended.  "It's not exactly riveting, watching someone freeze to death.  Believe me, there's someone I'd rather see while the veil is thin.  I'm doing this for him."

"I'm sorry I killed you," Damen said.  Even if he was hallucinating, he thought he should get that out there.

"Yes, touching," Auguste said.  "Come on, Damen.  Up you get.  He's waiting for you."

"I can't," Damen sighed.

"You have to," Auguste insisted.  He shook Damen and dragged him up by the arms until he was slumped against a tree. Damen put all his will and strength into just keeping his eyes from shutting again and Auguste crouched down to look him over.  He tutted again and turned away, and with a few quick motions summoned something that looked a bit like a campfire.  It hurt his eyes to look at it and there was something wrong with the color.  Auguste himself cast no shadow and left no prints in the snow.  "That should help," he said.  He unwound a wide scarf the bright sunlit blue of a summer sky from around his own neck and draped it around Damen.  Despite the small size, Damen instantly felt warmth radiating from it, and pins and needles as feeling began to creep back into his body.

He didn't remember standing, but he was walking again, and his body was nothing but pain but that was still better than the numbness.  Pain meant he was alive.  He moved clumsily through the trees, staggering and kicking up snow, but a tall figure with unbound golden hair flitted just ahead of him, showing him the way.  He tried to speak to the ghost, to tell him all the things he thought Auguste should know, but he didn't have enough air.  He was conscious of the scarf around him and a sense that it was not an infinite source of power, not by a long shot; he would pay for it later, but he would live.

"Don't be so sure, my prince.  If you want to see the dawn, you need to move faster."  Auguste appeared behind him, goading him forward, and he was solid and warm under Damen's hands when he steadied him and guided him along the slope toward the castle.

"I'm king now," Damen mumbled.

"You were so young," Auguste said.  "The last time I saw you.  Strange to think that boy now wears the scars of a whip, much less the weight of a crown."

"Is that why?" Damen asked.  He was not sure if he was speaking aloud, but Auguste answered him.

"Is that why I chose to face you alone?  I suppose so.  I meant to take you prisoner."

"I wish you had," Damen said.

"Truly?"

"He misses you so much.  If you hadn't died..."

"But I did.  I am a mere shadow of what has been, nothing more.  I am abroad this night to make a difference in the present that will hopefully bring about a better future."

"What future?"

"One where you don't die by your own unbelievable foolishness and break my poor brother's heart.  Now walk.  My time here ends with the dawn."

 

***

Jord had been knocking for some time, Laurent realized.  He sat up and pulled himself together, letting the blanket fall to the bed.  He scoured his eyes with his sleeve and felt overall like something fragile that had broken and been badly glued together.

"Come," he said.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, La- Your Majesty..."

"I gave orders that I was not to be disturbed," Laurent agreed.  His voice sounded level, not too rough to his ears.  It seemed he had not lost his skill at hiding his tears.

"The cohort from Akielos has arrived, and..."

"Is there some problem?  Find them some food and somewhere to sleep and I will greet them in the morning.  It must be half way through the second watch by now.  I'm surprised they didn't make camp on the road until the weather cleared."

"They were going to, but Da- King Damianos was with them..."

  
"I received word he'd been shot in Akielos,"

"He was, Your Majesty, but he was traveling with them and he..."

"What do you mean he WAS traveling with them?" Laurent demanded

"He rode ahead," Jord said.

"He did what."

"He took a horse and rode ahead of the troop.  They expected to meet him here tomorrow or the next day, but..." Jord hesitated, gathering his strength.

"But what," Laurent said.  He had thought nothing could be worse than knowing Damen was lying wounded or dead in another country, but here it was at his doorstep.

"His horse returned to the column without a rider, and the commander thought it best to press on to the fort," he said.  "No one knows where Damen is now."

"I'm going to kill him," Laurent said.  "Rouse the castle.  Take precautions, but see to it that everyone who is still even half sober is looking for him.  What could possibly have possessed him to ride through a blizzard with an arrow wound all alone?" He muttered.  He tried not to think of Damen, his sun-kissed skin bleached by cold and death, frozen in a snow bank with only his scarlet cloak to mark him.

"He said he had a promise to keep," Jord said. 

 

***

 

"Come now, Prince Damen, one before the other, keep up."

"I...don't feel well," he said.  The sky was growing lighter, black turning to a rose-tinted blue over his shoulder, but his vision was getting darker.  "Please, I'm tired."

"I know you are," Auguste said.  "It's all right if you want to stop.  I'll show you the way." His hand on Damen's face was warm, and his blue eyes were so kind.  Damen felt stretched and thin, beyond even the pain or the cold, and in the growing light of dawn his guide began to fade.  But his eyes, they were so familiar...

"But Laurent," he said.

"Yes.  It's your choice.  Forward or back.  But there's no time, Damen."

"I promised him," Damen said.

"So did I," Auguste said, wistfully.

"I want to go to him," he decided.  He clung to his battered body and mind, trying to force his eyes to focus and his limbs to move.

"There you are," Auguste said.  The dead prince smiled as Damen had never seen in life, and he understood why the Veretians hated him so.  "If I thought he couldn't count on you, I'd have left you in the snow."

"Does that mean you approve?" Damen asked.  It was something Laurent never said, but he picked up on the question, hovering between them still from time to time.

"It doesn't matter what the dead think," Auguste said.  He was fading in earnest now, rapidly losing his solid vitality as the sun rose behind the clouds.  The snow had slowed to a lazy drift and Damen could see more than a few feet in front of him.  "Laurent would be better off if he could accept that."

"But I killed you," Damen said.  "It bothers him."  Which was the understatement of a lifetime, but he thought Auguste probably knew that.

"And I've saved your life," Auguste said.  "Which should tell you all you need to know."

Damen shuffled over a last rise and saw the castle laid out before him.  The torches were still burning against the pearly sky.  A distant but familiar figure on horse back caught sight of him against the trees and called out, then kicked his horse forward, streaking toward Damen with his golden hair trailing behind him like a banner.

"He's going to be so mad," Damen said.

"He is," Auguste agreed.

"Thank you."

"Take care of him," Auguste said, and for the last time Damen felt a strong hand steady on his back. "Or I will come back."

"I will," Damen said, but Auguste was gone.  Damen thought of walking to meet Laurent, but he fainted into the snow instead.

 

***

 

When Damen opened his eyes, Laurent was there.  He'd meant to ask "What were you thinking?", but what came out first was

"Where did you get this?"  He knew Damen was in pain, his nerves on fire as his blood warmed, or at least what blood he had left, but he had to know.  He tugged on the blue scarf, but he didn't remove it, as though it tethered Damen to this world.  He recognized it; he'd given it away many Yules ago, made it with his own hands, and thought it lost along with so many other things.

"It was a gift," Damen rasped out.

"You fool, you idiot, I thought you were dead.  You should be dead, they told me.  You never should have survived all night out there."  Laurent balled his fists in the covers until his knuckles turned white to keep from shaking Damen, or strangling him, or simply lying on his chest and sobbing.  He could not accept what Damen was saying.  He was clearly deluded, but how else to explain the scarf, or his miraculous survival?  "What did you think you were doing?"

"I promised," Damen said.  "I'll always come back to you.  I'm sorry I'm late."

"Merry Yule," Laurent said.  "You're an idiot."  He bent down and kissed Damen's lips, chapped from the cold but warm to the touch now, and Damen tried to return it, but Laurent held him firmly, pressing his chest back to the bed.

'Merry Yule," Damen sighed.  Laurent lay against his side, warming him.

"This is probably the best gift I've ever received.  Except maybe the pony I got when I was seven," Laurent told him.

"I'm glad you like it," Damen chuckled.  "But I don't think it's from me."

 

THE END


End file.
